


Rags and Bones

by Cinnamaldeide



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alana as Will's temporary paddle, Alana did that study on Will, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Beta Read, Farmer!Will, Hannibal is Not Pleased, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Horticultural therapy, InYourSkin, M/M, Non-Chronological, Season/Series 01, Will Graham Knows, Will retired early
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 09:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14077824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/pseuds/Cinnamaldeide
Summary: What if Alana accepted Jack’s request to evaluate Will, instead of recommending Hannibal?I gave Will a good reason to wear squared-themed flannel.Written for Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive’s #InYourSkin





	Rags and Bones

**Author's Note:**

> I have to doubly thank Dani (@ustenance on Twitter) for having offered invaluable help in correcting all my grammatical errors and some of my senseless sentences not once, but _twice_. We could have kept correcting to no end, and their patience wouldn’t have faltered, I suspect.

 

 _There’s not a beautiful way to explain that I am lonely._  
— Anonymous

 

IV.

On the crooked road full of potholes to Alana’s former patient, Hannibal was required to drive with particular attention to ensure the good maintenance of his imported car, since said patient lived on the edge of his town and was entirely comfortable with his own distance from civilisation.

After rainy days, mud would plentifully cover its fenders and tires, threatening at every puddle to exhaust its powerful engine if he proceeded engaging more than the second gear, Hannibal had learned from experience. Often an appointment at the car wash after such visits couldn’t be avoided or delayed.

Despite minor difficulties, Hannibal would head every Thursday without fail to Wolf Trap for his weekly field trip in the silent wilderness of a specific desolate, bucolic landscape.

Not his particular aesthetics, considering his predilection for lavish interiors and expensive antiques, but apparently Will Graham’s. Despite his enviable academic education, the equally feared and celebrated profiler had given up on the stability of his teaching job for a reclusive, time consuming occupation affected by climatic variations, such as growing vegetables.

Hannibal initially wondered about his unusual life choice, before actually interacting with him in person. He rightly guessed his introvert nature, amicably answering Will’s relatively aggressive inquires, bordering on impoliteness, the first time Hannibal stood at his front door with an anonymous plastic bag of legally purchased bones for his multiple dogs.

In hindsight, his mistrust had been an understandable precautionary measure, considering his discomfort with the mere idea of social interaction. A number of clumsy psychiatrists previously burdened Will with imperceptive assumptions regarding his fascinating condition. Hannibal knew better than to offer his own.

“Good morning,” Hannibal greeted him cordially, walking away from his own car. Spotting Will’s square-patterned plaids from afar had become an unconscious habit. Imagining them covered in blood, as were they had been on their first meeting, became a familiar, decidedly helpful habit. “I trust your garden doesn’t need further watering, after last night’s weather,” Hannibal inquired, approaching the lone figure standing at the edge of the brussels sprouts field, lost in thought.

Posed in a pensive, mildly worried fashion, Will didn’t acknowledge his presence until Hannibal was but a few steps away from him. “I don’t even eat them,” Will began, vaguely gesturing towards his damaged produce, “but now I feel bad I didn’t cover them with nylon or something else for the night.”

“You planted them, you watched them grow in the safety of your protected ground,” Hannibal reasoned, “I believe it’s only natural you feel paternal towards them, in your own way.”

Affecting disregard, Will shrugged. “I never expected greens would inspire strong emotions in me,” he confessed, self-deprecating. Hannibal could relate to the mild discomfort at the waste, if not the timid personal attachment Will feigned indifference to. “Alana suggested I take a chance on gardening, considering I had the land, and the time after I resigned,” he added, before dramatically bringing his hand on his broken heart. “I suspect it backfired.”

Perfectly aware of the rehabilitative effect of therapeutic horticulture on traumatized patients, Hannibal didn’t inquire after Alana’s subtle attempt at discouraging her former patient from reducing his social relationship to non-verbal interactions with his canine companions. Will probably guessed as much, yet that didn’t deter him from being sarcastic about it. “Unfortunately, it does wonders for my kind of crazy.”

“You and I both know Alana’s concerns were probably directed towards your dietary habits,” Hannibal indulgently reminded him, suppressing the smile elicited by Will’s affirmation. “Please, allow me to relieve the pain of your agricultural loss,” Hannibal continued, kneeling on the ground without soiling his trousers. “I believe my cooking abilities can salvage at least part of your ruined harvest.”

“Feeding my dogs not sufficient anymore, Doctor Lecter?” Will bent on his knees in turn, moving his wicker basket closer. “Are you aiming towards their owner’s stomach?”

 _Perhaps to their owner’s brain, instead_ , he internally considered. “I already asked you to call me Hannibal, Will.”

 

 

II.

His current worn field clothes often featured faded, well-used trousers and check-patterned flannel of inventive color combinations, Hannibal mused, much similar to those Will wore in occasion of their first accidental encounter.

Hannibal had glimpsed him behind Alana’s protective figure, dripping blood on the linoleum hospital floor with vacant eyes, while broader shoulders than hers visibly itched to discard her to reach towards an admittedly catatonic target.

“You said he wouldn’t get too close, Jack,” Alana emphatically hissed at her uncontrite listener in their otherwise silent surroundings. “Will found your killer, risked his own life to ensure this man wouldn’t hurt his own daughter,” she said, commanding his otherwise fleeting attention, “and all you’re interested in, right now, is asking Will about the way he managed to catch him.”

Based on her animated lecture, Hannibal surmised the advice he previously gave her to assist Will Graham, despite her reservations, had led to an interesting development.

“There may be an accomplice.” Her terse interlocutor betrayed his depleting patience. “I can’t let Will off until we figure out if that’s the case.”

Despite his unfamiliarity with the circumstances, Hannibal found it quite evident Will Graham was in no condition to offer insight; Alana seemed singularly interested in expressing her strong dissent to her uncaring colleague, but Hannibal wasn’t currently interested in partaking in their tedious discussion. He would offer his own advice, if Alana required any, along with the ride home she requested, but the peculiar sight of her bloodied patient commanded Hannibal’s attention.

Droplets of dried blood adorned his scratched glasses, his dishevelled shirt, his bare forearms. Wiping his red-stained hands on an irremediably soiled cloth, his absent gaze reflected a perturbed state of mind. Hannibal would venture his hectic brain was intent on reviving fragmented details of the gruesome act of violence in which he prevailed, wrapping itself around his mortal experience without apparent compunction.

Hannibal wouldn’t have called _shock_ the state Will Graham found himself experiencing, rather an unassuming contemplation of his own potential capacity for warranted cruelty. For an agonizing moment, Hannibal craved his latent, promising instincts.

Such a shame Alana couldn’t conscientiously deem him stable enough to actively return to the field, progressing toward his eventual becoming, after his recent episode. Hannibal would have gladly consumed dear Will’s delightful mind, before the profiler would regrettably, inevitably retire from the public scene.

 

 

III.

“I trust your patient completely recovered from his traumatic experience,” Hannibal politely inquired, extending an unmarked Pilsner glass to his unscheduled, most welcome guest. “I happened to catch sight of him,” he continued, noticing his innocent question had piqued Alana’s interest, “your professionally intriguing acquaintance, I believe you called him.”

Despite her slight astonishment at Hannibal’s consideration, evading enquiries never suited Alana’s honest temperament. “My _former_ patient,” she deliberately corrected, “I’m not his therapist anymore. I arguably never was, since a psychological evaluation was all I’d been asked to provide.”

Sipping from her personalized serving of beer, unaware of its secret ingredient, she seemed to ponder her careful phrasing. “After his consultation for the FBI, he quit his previous job, withdrawing himself from his already distant relationships. I suggested he dedicate some time to horticultural therapy, before eventually progressing towards an increase in social interactions, as expected by this kind of treatment.”

“To thoroughly reap its fruits,” Hannibal playfully added, as an amused smile graced his tender gaze. “An excellent strategy,” he commended. Alana fondly raised her own glass to his casual humour and kind reassurances.

“I worry about him,” she confessed. “I don’t feel responsible for his experience.” Intense hostility coloured her flushed cheeks and her harsh tone, indicating she perfectly knew for whom to reserve her blame. “But I’m apprehensive.”

Admiring her passionate, resolute feelings, Hannibal imagined elaborate ways to corrupt her unrelenting, strong personality. “It’s understandable, Alana,” Hannibal reassured her, trailing his encompassing gaze on her dress, distinctly covered in dog hair. Assuming it hadn’t casually relocated on the fabric, he could infer the fawning animals belonged to someone she visited before their own amicable encounter.

“I believe your behaviour could be perceived as the undue commiseration of an anxious therapist, instead of an open expression of your sympathy.” Hannibal studied her response to his careful wording. “But I’m sure your former patient wouldn’t begrudge an apprehensive friend for finding an impartial observer to ascertain his well-being, for your own comfort.”

Not without reason, winning a man’s heart through his stomach had been a greatly inspiring saying in Hannibal’s experience. Gaining an unsociable dog owner’s trust through his faithful companions’ affection could lead to in an even more effective result, especially considering canine palates wouldn’t distinguish pig bones from human remains.

 

 

V.

Becoming comfortable with an unfamiliar kitchen had never required Hannibal much effort, thanks to his adaptive inclination; Will Graham’s managed to present a rather compelling challenge in its spartan frugality.

Internally considering potential recipes and the combination of ingredients and utensils at his disposal, Hannibal urged his amenable host, and temporary sous-chef, to roughly chop their Brussels sprouts, after having removed ultimately unsalvageable parts, while he himself collected the raw bacon _coincidentally_ stored in his Bentley.

Coordinating their awkward movements with reciprocal amusement, occasionally nudging elbows while butter and unprocessed fat melted in a large pan under Hannibal’s supervision, producer and consumer engaged in a fruitful cooperation to obtain an inviting, albeit rustic composition, served with an Agrodolce sauce.

“I was surprised you had fresh oranges at your disposal,” Hannibal remarked, quite pleased with such an unexpected outcome. Plating their final result with moderate garnish, Hannibal served Will at his own table and sat across from him.

“They’re in season,” said Will, pouring a passable wine in both their glasses without prompting, “and I figured you couldn’t resist dressing up your presentation a little.”

“Feeding your eyes before sating your hunger,” Hannibal said, basking in Will’s confident attitude, while his trained pack unobtrusively settled at an adequate distance.

Discreetly averting his gaze from their plates, Hannibal relished the nourishing sight of Will’s first bite disappearing between his lips for an indulgent moment, before beginning his own consumption. Enjoying tender meat he himself provided was an additional pleasure to his sensorial experience, entirely different from saving bones for Will’s dogs.

Their behaviour was flawless, they respected limitations on food and rules to a decent conduct, but an audience that could compliment his skills with adoring words or appreciative silences would always allure Hannibal more than a disorderly exhibition of wagging tails and frenzied barks.

Absently eating his savoury meal, Hannibal didn’t notice Will’s own purposeful stare. “I need to ask you a favour, Hannibal,” Will calmly declared, distracting him from his idle thoughts. “Stop feeding evidence to my dogs.”

His facial expression betrayed neither resentment nor judgment. Hannibal couldn’t detect uncertainty in his posture either.

Industriously searching for another savoury morsel in his rapidly emptying plate, Will quietly waited for Hannibal to recover from his remarkable stillness, despite an animalistic instinct strongly reacting at the edge of Hannibal’s conscience.

“You came here saying you were referred by a mutual friend who preferred to remain anonymous, which I could understand,” Will said, lifting the fork to his mouth, reminding Hannibal about the suspicious absence of knives on their unadorned table, “Alana wasn’t exactly subtle in her concern.”

While Hannibal’s appetite slowly returned, Will kept explaining himself. “I figured she meant well, sending you to help my recovery, while keeping Jack and his cases at bay. So I played along,” Will continued. “I told myself _, if Alana trusts him, he’s probably not writing a book about my psychosis_.”

“You were right, of course,” Hannibal said, wanting to confirm his hypothesis, before taking an unambitious bite from his still full plate.

“I hadn’t considered you would want to mess with my brain for entirely different reasons,” Will sharply retorted. “I noticed your frequent allusions to murder as an elusive form of art, fascinating yet socially unacceptable; your dedication to attuning my unstable brain to your presence, at the same time familiarizing yourself with my mental condition; your morbid eagerness to see me embrace my own nature and those dark urges I desperately want to suppress,” Will almost tenderly relented, “your famished stare, as your hungry eyes wandered from my dogs’ bowl to my mouth.”

An undoubtedly compelling sight to behold, which Hannibal suspected accurately reflected his own present condition. “Your vivid imagination amazes me, Will,” he confessed, smiling.

“I bet it does.” Will indolently stretched on his complaining chair. “You’re quite intelligent and thus easily bored, I get the appeal of fucking up someone disturbed enough to trigger your interest,” Will bluntly reasoned, “but I advise you against continuing.”

Hannibal couldn’t suppress his challenging grimace, at Will’s seemingly idle threat. “I know you’ve been planning something, you’ve been tracing an irregular path for me to follow all along,” Will emphatically accused. “I haven’t figured out where _to_ yet, but I’ll take a fair guess and wager you’re not entirely satisfied with my early retirement.”

For an intoxicating second, Hannibal could envision in his ravenous mind such an event occurring. Will would unravel his sophisticated, poetic tableau, let his own beautifully flexible sense of self mingle with the Chesapeake Ripper, who would become a constant temptation, as well as his sworn enemy.

“I didn’t even mind your offering for my dogs, which I actually took the trouble of burying on my property. I didn’t want to get involved with the FBI and I enjoyed your company, but I suggest you stop now, before I do.”

Despite his inner turmoil, Hannibal noticed Will hadn’t explicitly asked him to leave, rather to cease his manipulations, in favour of his own freedom. “I’m surprised your strong ethical drive didn’t compel you to see to my arrest, if you were so sure about my guilt.” Clearing his rapidly cooling plate with indulgent composure, Hannibal reached the focal point of his curiosity. “Why didn’t you?”

Considering his moral convictions, which Hannibal was able to thoughtfully explore in their long conversations, Will would hardly permit a dangerous criminal to remain free. Frowning at his legitimate question, Will seemed to be pondering an equally valid answer. “Perhaps for the same reason you still haven’t killed me.”

 

 

I.

Swirling red wine in her crystal glass with a distant look, Alana pensively sat on Hannibal’s leather couch. “I have a professionally intriguing acquaintance,” she announced, interrupting her meditative silence. “I’ve been officially asked to assess his condition for a psychological evaluation,” she added. “I refused.”

Carefully treading in the dissipating fog of her nebulous thoughts, Hannibal enquired, “What lead you to refuse?”

Sipping from her glass, Alana delayed her apparently complicated reply. “His hyperactive imagination forces him to deal with constant fear. Academically speaking, I’m curious about his condition,” Alana admitted. “But rather than a therapist,” she mused aloud, briefly revising her wording, “more than anything else, I suspect he needs a friend.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I drain life out of every plant I try to grow, that’s all I know about horticultural therapy.  
> I hope it has been a nice reading :) if you like it, please consider [sharing it](https://cinnamaldeide.tumblr.com/post/172200368569/).


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